South Park Confidential
by deephurting
Summary: It's 1948 and P.I. Stan Marsh is tasked with the case of a lifetime- make sure chief of police Eric Cartman never bothers anyone again. He needs the help of young paralegal Kyle Broflovski, but soon the pair discover secrets they never wished to know. AU. Main pairing is Style, will feature Creek, Bunny, and maybe others. New title, formerly known as "As The Snow Falls"
1. The River Feeds Into the Sea

Chapter 1: The River Feeds Into the Sea

Stan wasn't shocked when Token Black knocked on his door half past midnight, sopping wet with daggers in his eyes. Stan let him into his little studio apartment, pointing at a lone chair he used when clients came calling. Token took off his hat, ran his hand over his slicked hair and sighed. Stan grinned.  
"Let me guess- Cartman and his pigs?"  
Token nodded stiffly, staring at a window. "I want him dead."  
"Whoa," Stan raised his brows. "You know my rule- I don't kill."  
"No, I know. But I need you to do something- anything. Tonight was the final straw."  
Stan made his way over the the icebox and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey.  
"You want some?" He asked, gesturing to the bottle.  
Token shook his head, so Stan shrugged and took a swig from the bottle, not bothering with a cup. The familiar burn of wet fire comforted his dry throat. Taking his sweet time, he quietly walked over to Token and took a seat on the edge of the bed, placing the whiskey bottle next to his feet and resting his elbows on his thighs. Hunched over, he met Token's dark gaze and smiled.  
"So," Stan began, reaching into his front shirt pocket to produce a small carton of cigarettes. "What happened?"  
Without warning, Token jumped up and began pacing back and forth in the small room, stepping over stray clothes and books littered on the floor. While Stan lit a cigarette and took a drag, Token opened his mouth to speak, stopped, and continued pacing. It was a few minutes until he finally spoke, his voice low like a bass.  
"You know I'm a law abiding man- usually. I run an honest business, yet whenever the mood strikes him, my club gets raided by his pigs. Sure, I expected things like this to happen when I first opened up, just another cost of business. But this time, all my customers are chased out, harassed and terrified, and my club is trashed. Repairs are gonna take weeks and I'm gonna lose my entire customer base if he's police chief for one more day."  
He was speaking quickly, but Stan caught the gist of it. Cartman hated Token with a passion, and used every little excuse he could muster up to get a warrant to raid the man's nightclub. Hell, half the time he didn't even get a warrant. What was Token gonna do? File a complaint? Stan laughed to himself at the thought. He took his cigarette out of his mouth to speak, smoke flowing from his parted lips.  
"And what would you pay to see him gone?"  
The room went quiet as the two men stared at each other, neither daring to let their face show any expression. This was Stan's favorite part. Token sat back down in the chair, leaned back and crossed his thick arms. His deep, brown eyes met Stan's blue, shining like a dark river.  
"Stan, I am prepared to offer you $5,000- half now, half after the job is done."  
It took everything Stan had to resist bolting up and gasping like he was drowning. Usually, he had to haggle for anything over $200, but $5,000? Stan would have contemplated just straight up killing Cartman for that amount, and here was Token offering it to make the chief lose his job. Either Token was really loaded, or he really hated Cartman. Maybe both. Stan grabbed his whiskey bottle and held it to his lips, letting the alcohol slowly reach his dry tongue and slide down his throat, savoring the taste and Token's fidgeting as he waited for a reply. Finally, Stan put the bottle back down and clasped his hands under his chin.  
"This is an awfully big job, Token."  
Token frowned. "And I'm offering you an awfully big sum."  
"And what about extra expenses?" Stan arched an eyebrow, hoping Token caught his drift.  
"You mean bribes?" Yeah, Token caught it, but then he threw it right back.  
Stan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Token. But don't say that shit out loud. You never know who's listening."  
Token just snorted and gave a half-smile. "I'll cover any expenses you come across."  
There was a pause as Stan leaned back on his elbows, his back resting against a pillow. He thought about what he could do with that much money. _I could get a fridge_. He nodded, his head like a buoy on the waves.  
"Alright, I'll do it. Got anything for me to go on?"  
Token grinned, his teeth beautifully straight, and produced a small piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Stan. It was a little damp, but still readable. On it a name and address was quickly scrawled **KYLE BROFLOVSKI - 1815 LEITCH AVENUE.**  
"He's a paralegal," Token explained. "Apparently, Cartman got in trouble a few years back and Broflovski worked with his dad on the case. He hates Cartman as much as I do, so I thought he'd have some info for you. You can trust him."  
Stan nodded, tucked the paper into his shirt pocket, and popped his cigarette back into his mouth. Token took this as his cue to leave, so he placed his still damp hat back on and headed towards the door.  
"Before you go, tell me- why are you all wet?" Stan asked.  
Token had his hand on the door handle as he scowled. "Bastard pushed me in the snow."


	2. Flames Over The Sea

Chapter 2: Flames Over the Sea  
The mother of all headaches was screaming behind Stan's forehead as he shielded his eyes from the sun, walking through the double doors to the Porter law firm. He had spent the rest of last night celebrating by getting drunk alone, and woke up at noon to vomit. All in all, a good night. Around three, he finally got out of bed and walked to the firm. His eyes were swimming as he tried to read the names on the black and white directory. He had that kind of feeling where you can look at something, but not really see it, so even though he was reading the directory, he wasn't understanding what it said. He figured it was too much effort, so he walked over to a secretary seated at her little desk.  
"Hi, doll," he smiled brightly, despite feeling like he had just swallowed sea water. "I'm looking for a Kyle Broflovski. You know him?"  
The pretty little secretary gave a pretty little smile and blushed. "Yeah," she eagerly nodded. "Floor two, second door on the left."  
"Thanks," he waved and headed up the stairs.  
Upstairs, he found a door that read **GERALD BROFLOVSKI - ASSOCIATE**. Stan figured it was the dad that Token mentioned. He paused for a moment to rub his temples, reminding himself to get some aspirin later. Finally, he pushed through the door into the small office. Inside, there were two desks and a couple of pastel colored chairs for clients. There were a few cheap paintings of sailboats hanging from the walls, and seated at one of the desks was a handsome young man with curly red hair, reading some papers from a manila envelope. When he spotted Stan, his eyes opened wide in surprise, but he put down his papers and smiled politely.  
"Hello there. Gerald Broflovski isn't in right now, but can I help you with anything?"  
Stan drifted over to stand in front of the young man's desk, peering coolly down at him. Upon closer inspection, he could see light freckles peppering the man's fair skin and a pair of beautiful eyes- pale brown mixed with green.  
"That depends," Stan started, leaning forward. "You Kyle?"  
Kyle swallowed and nodded, pursing his lips and probably wondering what this guy wanted with _him_ , of all people. Most people came looking for the lawyer, not the paralegal.  
Stan smiled at him, his eyes washing over the redhead like the tide. "My name's Stanley Marsh, private investigator. I heard that you worked on a little case a few years back concerning one Eric Cartman. Remember anything about it?"  
All traces of Kyle's smile were burned alive. His eyebrows lowered his entire face into a frown.  
"Yeah, I remember plenty. It was in '46. Charged with homicide in the first degree for a murder committed in '45. He was acquitted."  
"Interesting," Stan started thumbing through the rolodex on the desk. Kyle didn't' stop him. "I think I remember reading about it in the papers. Did he do it?"  
"He was acquitted."  
Stan frowned. "I know, but did he actually kill someone?"  
"That's not for me to say."  
As Kyle said this, Stan paused in searching the rolodex, noticing a certain name and number that stood out. In small, neat print on the note card was _Clyde Donovan WO4-9997_. The name was familiar to Stan as the deputy of the South Park police department. It was only an inkling, but Stan was desperate for any type of lead, so he made sure to memorize the number before turning back to Kyle.  
"Come on, didn't he ever tell you anything that made you at least a little doubtful of his innocence?" He inched his face closer to Kyle's, a small smile on his lips.  
"Attorney-client privilege," Kyle answered, scooting back a bit in his chair and turning his eyes away from Stan. "I can't tell you anything that wasn't said in court."  
"Are you sure?"  
Kyle suddenly slammed his hand against the desk, causing Stan to step back with wide eyes. Kyle stood up and glared at the investigator, brow furrowed and gaze burning with rage.  
"Just who the hell are you to waltz in here and try to get me to tell someone I don't even know something that would cost me my job?"  
"Relax, buddy. I'm just a P.I. I got nothing against you."  
Kyle heaved a sigh that racked his whole body with a shiver. He ran his fingers through his hair and walked around the side of the desk, standing in front of Stan. He slightly shorter than Stan and rather slender, yet his shoulders were tensed and his arms were crossed in such a way that Stan felt apprehension sliding down his spine. At least his headache was better.  
"A P.I.," Kyle scoffed. "What, did his wife hire you to see if he's cheating? That seems to be all you people do."  
"As if anyone would want to marry that fatass."  
There was a pause as the two men locked eyes as if they were stuck in a Mexican standoff. Then, Kyle started laughing. His face was lit up with a beautiful smile as he uncrossed his arms and laughed brightly. Stan couldn't help but laugh too after a moment. Their laughter gave way to more laughter, the tension slipping out of the room with each giggle. When they finally managed to stop, the two men smiled genuine smiles.  
"Tell me honestly- are you trying to take Cartman down?" Kyle asked.  
Stan wasn't sure if he should tell Kyle the truth. He remembered Token's words- _you can trust him_. But what if Token was wrong? What if Kyle went and warned Cartman? Stan couldn't afford a slip up like that, it could cost him his life. Yet, as he searched Kyle's green eyes, some voice in the back of his mind told him to take the chance.  
"Yes. I was hired to find something on Cartman that would get him kicked out of his position."  
Stan stiffened as Kyle stepped towards him, his footprints soft against the carpet. Kyle lifted his face to Stan, merely a few inches away, and began to speak in a low voice.  
"I want in."  
"What?"  
"I want to join you. Help me help you in taking that fat bastard down."  
Stan opened his mouth, a little surprised. "Uh, I usually work alone."  
"Cartman's got most of this city under his thumb. You're gonna have a real hard time without my help. Listen, you can't pin that murder on him- double jeopardy protects him, and even if new evidence is found, the chances are slim at best. However, we can definitely find evidence of corruption- or worse."  
Stan mulled over this, the gears in his head slowly coming to life. He already told Kyle his plan, it wouldn't hurt anymore to let him tag along. Still, he didn't know the guy that well. Or at all, really. Maybe he could gently dissuade him. It would be much easier if Kyle just told him what he knew and they both went on with their lives.  
"I won't share the money with you," Stan said firmly.  
Kyle just scoffed "I'll do it _pro bono publico_. For the good of the public."  
"You'll have to deal with some seedy characters."  
"I do that here."  
"It's dangerous. You could die."  
A smile spread like flames across Kyle's mouth. "Good."  
Stan wasn't sure what to say. This Kyle Broflovski was shaping up to be a rather strange character. A volatile paralegal with a grudge against the chief of police, paired with a jaded, alcoholic private investigator desperate for money. What could possibly go wrong?  
"I get off at five," Kyle continued. "Meet me back here and bring me to your client. Got it?"  
Stan nodded, mouth dry like sand. Kyle turned back to his desk, straightening out his papers. Stan turned to the door and quietly left the building. As he walked down the street, collar popped up to protect his neck from the wind, he thought about Kyle. It was strange, he found that he didn't dislike the young man. He had this feeling in his chest- hope, maybe? Yes, hope that their partnership would turn up positive results for everyone involved (well, everyone except Cartman, of course). Stepping over small mounds of snow, Stan spotted a phone booth and was reminded of Clyde Donovan. Fuck, what was that number again? WO4-9997? Yes, that sounded right. He stuffed himself inside the phone booth, dialing the number quickly and waiting. It seemed like years when a voice finally spoke on the other end.  
"Hello?"  
"Hi, is this Clyde Donovan?" Stan tried to make his voice lower than usual.  
"Yes, who is this?"  
"My name's Joe Harper. I'm a journalist with the South Park Times, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about chief of police Eric Cartman for an article I'm writing?"  
Stan heard Clyde breathe, imagining the cop twirling the phone cord on the other end as he tapped his foot.  
"Um, sure. Go ahead."  
Stan smiled to himself. He started off asking Clyde basic questions, like what he thought Cartman's greatest accomplishment was as chief, what it was like working closely with him, blablabla. Naturally, Clyde replied that Cartman was a great chief, he loved working with him, great guy, blablabla. Soon, Stan decided it was time to push a little further.  
"What would you say is his biggest flaw?"  
"Uh, maybe he's a little too eager? I mean, he really likes busting perfectly innocent people. Wait! Don't print that! Just say that he's really eager."  
"Uh-huh, and do you have any examples of him 'busting' innocent people?"  
"I'm not supposed to be talking about this, man," Clyde mumbled. He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again he sounded strange. "How did you get this number? I'm not in the phone book."  
Without thinking, Stan slammed the phone back onto the receiver, breathing hard. Real smooth. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, leaning against the wall. He could of at least come up with some excuse so that he didn't sound so suspicious. The last thing he needed was the cops on edge- at the very beginning of an investigation, no less. Great start.  
Stan started heading home, hands in his pockets. It was only 4:00 p.m. He had about an hour until meeting Kyle, so he could go back to his studio and drink for a bit to get rid of his edge. Looks like this case was gonna be harder than expected.


	3. All Consuming Fire

Chapter 3: All Consuming Fire  
Note: I was high when I wrote some of this, so sorry if it's a little weird. Don't do drugs, kids. I feel like shit.  
Historical note: In the last chapter, I featured Clyde's phone number. Back in the day, phone numbers had letters in them because it was easier for operators to remember. Also, the rolodex wasn't invented until the 1950's, but there was a thing called a wheeldex before that. I just used rolodex because nobody knows what a frickin' wheeldex is.

Kyle was twenty-two when he first met Eric Cartman. The redhead was fresh out of college, having failed at becoming a lawyer and instead settled to be a paralegal working for his father. Cartman was then only deputy of the South Park Police Department, but cocky enough to be sure of a promotion soon. The two hated each other instantly. They meet one snowy evening when Cartman was meeting with his lawyer, Gerald Broflovski- Kyle's father and boss. Of course, Cartman objected to having a Jew for a lawyer, but everyone insisted that Gerald was the best he could afford.  
Kyle still remembers the details of the case quite clearly. A young British man named Pip Pirrup went missing one day after having a run-in with Cartman for a minor traffic violation. His body was never found, but traces of blood stained the lonely intersection where he was last seen with Cartman. There were also stray bullet casings scattered in the snow and dirt nearby that matched Cartman's gun, and one search warrant later, Pip's hat (with strands of blond hair still stuck to it) was found in Cartman's home.

Despite the evidence against him, Cartman's defense was remarkably easy to argue. Cartman and Pip had known each other before the incident, in fact they had almost been friends. Pip could have just left his hat at Cartman's place and forgot about it. But why would Cartman give his friend a ticket for a minor infraction? Well, no man was above the law. Furthermore, there was no body to determine how Pip had died (if he was even dead), so the bullet casings could have been from anyone with the same gun- and there were many people with the same gun. Cartman's alibi was that as soon as he was finished with Pip, he went back to the station for the end of his shift, made his report, and went to the bar to visit friends. Clyde Donovan testified that Cartman had indeed shown up at the bar around 9:30 p.m. and seemed perfectly normal (or at least as 'normal' as Cartman could be). With only circumstantial evidence and reasonable doubt, the cop was acquitted within several days and became chief of police in the next year.

Kyle was pissed. He had spent months dealing with the fat bastard calling him a 'fag Jew' and 'the queen of kikes', and should have been glad to finally be rid of him. Yet, something gnawed at him. Cartman hadn't given his alibi until relatively late in the investigation, and even then it changed several times. First, he gone to the bar at 9:30, then he claimed that he had gone home first to feed his cat, then the story was that he never went home at all until the next day. Finally, he reverted back to his original story of going to the bar with Clyde Donovan at 9:30 p.m. June 12th, 1945. Clyde himself was foggy on the details- he only said that Cartman was there at that time and absolutely nothing else. He was nervous when pressed for details and refused to talk without a lawyer, despite being reassured that he was not a suspect.

That wasn't all. The paperwork that Cartman supposedly did at 8:00 p.m. wasn't found until almost two months after it was 'filed'. Gerald chalked that up to a clerical error, but Kyle wasn't so sure. Maybe it was his own personal bias getting in the way, but Kyle believed Cartman to be guilty. However, Kyle still did his job like a good boy and never breathed a word of his suspicions to his father or anyone else.

Until Stan Marsh showed up asking questions. Kyle was more than a little surprised when the handsome, black haired man came looking for him, but he didn't even need time to think about joining him in his quest to destroy Eric Cartman. When the clock ticked to 5, Kyle grabbed his hat and trench coat and stepped out of the building, a grim look of determination etched on his face. Standing dark against the pale gray of the sky outside was Stan, casually smoking a cigarette. The two men smiled at each other.

"Hope you're not tired," Stan said, extinguishing his cigarette against a brick wall and tossing it into a trashcan. "We got a late night ahead of us. Can't see my client 'til 7. For now, come with me. I got something I want you to do. You got a car?"

"Yeah, it's round back," Kyle said, digging in his pockets for the keys. "What'd you have in mind?"

They walked around the corner to a small parking lot where Kyle's old, dark brown jalopy waited. Stan wasted no time in seating himself on the passenger side, noticing a thick layer of dust coating the dashboard. Kyle joined him a moment later, placing his keys in the ignition. With a musty groan, the engine stuttered to life. Stan couldn't help but smile to himself at the pathetic little car.

"So," he began, turning to Kyle. "Here's the plan; we go down to the police station, and you're gonna pay a little visit to Cartman."

"What for?"

"I don't know, come up with something, anything, that will get him to leave you alone in his office for a few minutes. While you're in there, grab the work schedules. He's probably got them laying somewhere around. But don't make it look too suspicious, 'kay?"

Kyle nodded, backing the car out of the parking lot slowly. Stan found himself staring at the fair stretch of skin that was exposed on Kyle's neck as he craned his head to look out the back window.

"I can't wait to hear what new slurs he's come up with for me," Kyle's voice snapped Stan back to full attention.

"What does he call you?"

Kyle grinned as they drove onto the main street. "Usually, just Jew. Sometimes he got creative and called me 'queen of the kikes'."

"Are you Jewish?"

"Yeah."

Stan went quiet, looking- no, _gaping_ \- at Kyle with his mouth slightly hanging open. Kyle's smile vanished and he glanced over at the investigator.

"That's not an issue, is it?" Slight irritation was sparking in his voice.

"No!" Stan assured a little too quickly, jumping forward in his seat. He took a second to lean back again and run his hands through his black hair. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and controlled. "Actually, I fought in Germany during the war."

"Oh, wow," Kyle mumbled, suddenly feeling a little guilty for his previous annoyance. "Uh, thanks for your service."

Stan just laughed at this, a bright, lyrical sound that reminded Kyle of ocean waves lapping at the shore. "Don't thank me. I'm no hero."

"Well, I didn't serve or anything. You're braver than me."

"No," Stan was suddenly serious, staring straight ahead out the narrow windshield at the passing blur of trees and buildings. "That wasn't bravery."

Kyle didn't respond. The air hung thick like fog between them. How could Kyle, who had never even ventured outside of Colorado, possibly relate to somebody who's seen indescribable horrors and experienced such extreme loss? They were quiet the rest of the car ride.

It wasn't long before they reached the police station. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon behind them, painting the ashy clouds with tinges of warm reds and yellows, as the two men stepped inside. A few cops were sitting at their desks, lazily filling out paperwork, including a certain Clyde Donovan. Stan visibly tensed, his neck and shoulders tightening like a rope pulled taut, as the brown haired cop looked up at the pair. They had only spoken over the phone, so there was no way that Clyde could possibly know who Stan was, right?

Much to Stan's horror, Clyde stood up and smiled at them, walking over. His dark blue uniform was a little loose on him, small wrinkles forming like canyons on the fabric. Stan resisted the urge to bolt out of the station as the young cop came closer, arms open wide. However, his anxiety evaporated when Clyde instead turned to Kyle.

"Kyle! It's been forever, how the hell are you?"

Stan released his breath. That's right, Kyle and Clyde already knew each other.

"I'm good, Clyde," Kyle replied, his eyes bright. "I'm actually here to see the chief. Is he in?"

Clyde nodded and pointed over to the door leading into Cartman's office. Kyle politely thanked him and went over. Stan remained next to Clyde, watching Kyle walk away.

"Do you work with Kyle?"

Stan didn't immediately realize that Clyde asked him a question, his eyes flicking back between the cop and the chief's office.

"Oh, yeah," he said after a moment. "I'm a clerk at the firm."

"My name's Clyde."

"I'm Sid Sawyer. Actually, I'm kind of new to town," Stan began. "You're chief is Eric Cartman?"

Clyde nodded, turning his eyes away and glancing at his feet. He wasn't saying anything, so Stan decided to prod him a little.

"Do you like him?"

"Yeah, all the guys do," Clyde was still looking at his feet as he said this.

" _All_ the guys, really?" Stan raised his eyebrows, pretending to be impressed. "Last city I lived in, the chief was a real ass. Loved to pick on everybody and everything under the sun and thought he could do whatever he wanted 'cause of his status. Needless to say, he wasn't too popular. They eventually found him face down in the dirt with a bullet hole in his head."

During Stan's little story, Clyde had slowly raised his head and his brown eyes went wide. Stan couldn't help but be pleased with himself for coming up with the tale on the spot.

"Just goes to show," he continued, a smirk swimming onto his face. "That nobody's indestructible."

Clyde just nodded, a far away look planted in his eyes as he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

The inside of Cartman's office was cluttered with stray papers, magazines, and scraps of food. The wooden desk was hardly visible beneath folders and files piled upon each other. A small framed picture of an older, but pretty woman with brown hair tied back in a bun was placed carefully between a gray lamp and a badge. However, the real climax of the room was Cartman himself. He reclined in his chair, hands resting behind his head and hat tossed on his lap. He was a large man, no doubt. Once, he had been more muscular, a man of sheer strength and raw power like a bull, but now the muscle was turning to fat- a lot of fat. A snide smile formed on his lips when he saw Kyle's thin frame push through his door.

"Long time no see, Jew."

Kyle carefully closed the door behind him, turning to Cartman with a frown.

"Shut it, I'm not here for fun."

"No, you'd go to a fag bar for that."

"Shut up, fatass," Kyle crossed his arms and glared at a smiling Cartman. "Some new clerk misplaced your file and everything's lost. I need all paperwork from June 12th, 1945. You still got it?"

Now, Cartman's mouth was hanging open and his eyebrows were lowered dangerously. "Fuck, I'd have to go all the way to the other side of the station for that shit. Why do you even need a file on me, I haven't seen used your kike firm in years."

"Colorado law states that we keep all clients files for at least six years in case of-"

"Alright, alright, sheesh. Don't bore me with that law crap."

Kyle resisted breathing a sigh of relief as Cartman stood up and stalked out of the office. The story was a weak one, but thankfully Cartman bought it. Wasting no time, Kyle jumped behind the desk and started shifting through all the different papers strewn in the office. There were applications, reports, criminal files, but he couldn't find any work schedules. He ripped through drawers and cabinets with frantic movements for several minutes until he heard the unmistakably heavy footsteps of Cartman outside the door.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ … Kyle was cursing under his breath, digging through one last drawer when he spotted them. The work schedules for the next month were lazily thrown on top of various other papers in a small drawer near the bottom of the desk. He quickly grabbed them and stuffed them into his coat, bounding over to the other side of the desk just as Cartman opened the door and walked in, carrying a folder and coke. Kyle tried to subtly regulate his heavy breathing, praying that Cartman didn't notice anything, as the fat cop tossed a stack of papers stuffed into a beige folder on his desk. The label on the folder read 'June '45'.

"No way in hell am I going through that whole thing just for one day. You can do that," Cartman said, slumping back into his chair and opening his bottle of coke.

Kyle mumbled his thanks and hurriedly raced out of the office to where Stan was chatting with a few cops.

"I got it," he said, gripping Stan's arm and dragging him outside.

"Good job!" Stan grinned and lightly slapped Kyle's back.

The two men walked back to the car, shivering against the winter wind.

"Where to next?" Kyle asked as he slid into the driver's side.

Stan grabbed the folder from Kyle and began flicking through the schedule. "Time to pay a visit to a good friend of mine."


	4. Electric Jolt

Chapter 4: Electric Jolt

In a cramped alleyway tucked between two ramshackle apartment buildings there was a metal fire escape leading up to the back doors of several shabby apartments. The sky was now dark, the moon low near the horizon, partially obscured by clouds. Stan and Kyle climbed up the metal stairs to the second floor, finding themselves standing in front of a plain white door. Before they knocked, Stan turned to Kyle with a grim expression.

"Fair warning- this guy's a little shell-shocked, real paranoid. He's always been strange, but when he came back from fighting in the Philippines, he kinda lost it. Just let me do the talking."

With that, Stan began knocking on the door. He first made three quiet raps, as though he were testing the wood, then he made three extremely loud knocks, and finished off the ritual with one regular knock. Kyle wrinkled his brow as he watched the strange procedure, about to ask why Stan did that when he heard a metallic clang behind the door, the sound of a key twisting inside a lock, and then the muffled rattling of chains falling to the floor. The door opened up just enough to reveal a sliver of warm light and the face of a young man with untamed blonde hair and large amber eyes engulfed by dark shadows underneath. Stan smiled gently at the man.

"Hey, Tweek. I got a job for you, if you're up for it."

With short, jerky movements Tweek wrenched the door open just enough for Stan and Kyle to slip inside. After quickly slamming the door shut behind him, Tweek stooped down to pick up a thick chain and padlock and reattach it to the door, where it was then locked onto a hook on the wall so tightly that nobody from the outside could open the door even a centimeter. God forbid there ever be a fire in Tweek's apartment, the guy would probably be burned alive. Though he probably also took every single precaution to prevent a fire from ever starting in there.

Kyle glanced at the inside of the apartment, noticing mugs of coffee littering almost every surface. However, the rest of the room was spectacularly clean (not even a speck of dust could be found), but also spectacularly plain. There was a bed and a couch both in army green, and an archway leading into a tiny kitchen that consisted only of a sink, oven, and two cabinets. There were no photos, posters, or even windows. Kyle thought the place seemed very lonely.

Stan produced the police work schedules from his coat and opened his mouth to speak when Tweek suddenly made a whining sound and pointed at Kyle.

"Wait!" Tweek's voice was rather loud. "Who's he?"

"I'm Kyle Broflovski, I'm working with Stan," he said, extending his hand. Tweek ignored it and just eyed Kyle up and down, fidgeting slightly.

Kyle pursed his lips and looked to Stan for help. He just shrugged.

"Stan, how do you know you can trust this guy?" Tweak asked, scratching his head a bit too roughly.

"I don't."

Tweek's jaw dropped open, his eyes growing the size of basketballs, and he even began shaking so much that it seemed like he was vibrating like an electric current.

"Stan! I can't believe you would just bring him here, now he knows where I live! What if he's a serial killer, or a snitch, or a commie, or an undercover cop, or a drug kingpin-"

"Tweek, relax," Stan interrupted. "You trust me right? I wouldn't put you in any danger."

Tweek stopped his ranting, but continued to warily glare at Kyle while grabbing a cup of coffee that was sitting on the nightstand. He took a few rapid sips of the drink, reveling in the momentary relief that the smooth, black taste provided, before continuing.

"Nngh, whatever. What's the job?"

Stan handed Tweek the schedules, who then proceeded to flip through and examine each and every page while Stan explained.

"So, we want the police force to start rebelling against Cartman, make them see what a monster he is. Those are the shift schedules for the next month. I figured you could use them when you're using your skills to persuade your buddies on the force."

"Woah, hold on a second," Tweek dropped the schedules on the couch. "What are you talking about?"

"You're friends with Clyde, right? Just kinda wriggle your way into his circle of cop buddies and plant the seed of doubt in their minds. Make 'em think that Cartman's a demon."

A nervous twitching began conquering Tweek's slim frame as he wrung his hands, looking like a wind vane caught in a storm. He shook his head and backed up, staring at his feet.

"N-no way, man. That's -ack- too much pressure!"

Stan sighed and fished in his pockets, pulling out a crisp fifty dollar bill. "Will this make you reconsider?"

Tense silence swallowed the three men as Tweek stared at the money, biting his lip. However, a sudden knocking was heard before anything could be said. Tweek jumped, loudly yelping, and looked at where the sound came from. Somebody was knocking at the front door (as opposed to the fire escape exit).

"Oh God, please don't be the underwear gnomes," Tweek whispered, padding over to the door and peeking the peephole. As soon as he saw just who it was, he breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door.

Stan's entire body stiffened at the sight of her, heart racing and face pale. She still looked the same from the last time he had seen her, almost two years ago, all willowy and rosy cheeked, black hair pinned behind her ears to gently roll down her long neck, and wearing a dark purple pencil skirt and white blouse beneath her black trench coat.

"Stan?" She gasped, brown eyes growing wide when she saw him.

Stan tried to offer a sheepish smile, but it came more like grimace. "Hi, Wendy."

Wendy shifted her gaze from Stan, to Kyle, to Tweek, and back to Stan again, frozen in her spot.

"I'm sorry, Wendy," Tweek said. "I didn't know Stan was coming over."

She clutched her silver in necklace in her fist, eyes down. "It's okay, I'm not mad."

"Why are you here?" Stan asked, not trying to sound callous but managing to do so anyway.

"I told Tweek I'd help him practice for his audition."

There was a stiff pause like a cool breeze just before a storm. Kyle glanced at Wendy looking at Stan with big, moony eyes, and Stan looking right back with eyebrows creased in a pitying look. Deciding to break the tension, Kyle loudly cleared his throat.

"Oh," Stan snapped out of his trance and gestured to Kyle. "Wendy, this is Kyle Broflovski. Kyle, Wendy Testaburger."

Wendy now turned to Kyle, pursing her lips as she flicked her gaze up and down him. She didn't smile. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Broflovski."

"Likewise."

Suddenly, Stan stomped over to Tweek, shoving the fifty into his hands and making direct eye contact. "Have we got a deal?" His voice was low and gruff.

Tweek just nodded, folding up the bill and tucking it into his shirt pocket. Stan made a U-turn and placed his hand lightly on Kyle's back, leading him to the fire escape exit.

"I'll talk to you later, Tweek. Nice seeing you again, Wendy."

"Stan, wait," Wendy called after him, but Stan just kept on walking, slamming the door behind him.

Night was wrapping her starry blanket over the city as Stan shivered in the chilly air. Kyle watched him take out a cigarette and delicately place it between his lips. He produced his lighter, but had trouble igniting the flame. His gloved thumb kept slipping on the wheel, until he grew too frustrated and pushed it towards Kyle.

"Light this for me?"

"You know, smoking will kill you," Kyle said as he ignited the lighter and held it up to the cigarette perched in Stan's mouth, his bare hands close enough to feel the other man's hot breath radiating into the cool air. The tiny flame met the end of the cigarette, and Stan sucked it in slowly, his tongue bathing in the chemical scent. Smoking didn't give him a buzz anymore, but it helped him relax. Not as much as alcohol helped, though. Kyle stared at the end of the cigarette blazing bright red like molten lava, then raised his gaze to Stan's lowered eyes, deep like an indigo ocean. When Stan had taken his drag and exhaled the smoke in gray puffs, Kyle handed the lighter back. They walked back to the car and hopped in.

"So, who exactly was that guy?" Kyle asked, shifting the gears.

"An actor."

"And the girl?"

There was a pause as Stan huffed his cigarette. "A reporter."

"And she's in love with you?"

Stan choked on the smoke, coughing violently into his hands, then looked at Kyle with wide eyes. "How'd you figure that?"

Kyle shrugged. "Just a feeling."

They were backing up out of the alley when Stan starting speaking in a soft voice.

"We dated for a long time- most of high school, through the war, and a little after. We broke up about two years ago and I hadn't seen her since."

"How come?"

Stan rolled down the window, poking his head into the night breeze and watching snow covered trees pass by.

"I cheated on her," he said casually, bending his head back into the car.

Kyle didn't say anything.

Token owned a nightclub on the west side of South Park. It was a little place called 'The Delta' that opened up at 8:00 p.m. every night and didn't close until 4:00 a.m. When in full swing, the drinks were overpriced, it was too dark to see clearly, and completely clouded with smoke, but the jazz band was amazing. Stan and Kyle rolled in around 7:30 p.m., and were greeted by the bouncer, a large black man wearing a sharp suit. He stood in front of the two men like a stone wall. Stan put on his most charming smile and was about to explain to the bouncer to let them through, when a handsome black man walked up behind him.

"It's alright, Wilbur. They're friends," Token said, holding a margarita. The strong scent of lime wafted over the men as the bouncer moved aside to let them through.

Token smiled at the two men, arms open wide as they walked through the threshold into the club. There were no customers yet, but a few waiters were setting up tables at the sides, a heavy, black bartender was washing mugs at the bar, and the band was tuning their instruments. Kyle became aware that everybody in the club was black (though back in those days, they said 'negro' or 'colored').

"Nice to see you again, Stan," Token's warm voice broke through Kyle's thoughts. "And you too, Kyle."

With a smile, Kyle returned the greeting.

"How do you two know each other?" Stan asked, putting out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

"Kyle was my lawyer when I got sued a couple months ago."

"Yeah," Kyle added. "Do you remember that old lady that testified against you?"

Token and Kyle suddenly broke into grins and started laughing. Must have been an inside joke. The two men sat down at a booth and started chatting while Stan decided that he couldn't sit through their reminiscing and walked over to the bar.

"Mind if I'm a little early?" He asked the bartender while slouching into a stool.

"Not at all. What can I get you?" The bartender's voice was deep, and rich like sweet chocolate. Stan immediately felt comfortable with him.

"Jameson on the rocks."

Stan rested his head into the crook of his arm on the counter, watching the bartender pour the amber colored liquid into the glass and slide it down the counter to Stan.

"Thanks," he said, taking a sip of the drink and letting it sweetly burn through his throat. "Hey, what's your name, man?"

"Jerome," the bartender replied, wiping down the counter. "But most people call me Chef."

"Why's that?"

Chef just shrugged. Stan downed the rest of his drink and ordered another. And then another, and another, and another, until it was a little past 9 and people were starting to file in the club. Every patron was black, and many looked strangely at Stan slumped at the bar, but didn't say anything. They left the two seats on either side of him unoccupied, instead preferring to be seated as far away from the white man as possible. He generally ignored their glances, wondering if that's what black people felt like pretty much everywhere else.

"Hey, Chef," Stan slurred, his tongue feeling clumsy. "Ya' got a woman?"

Chef let out a low laugh. "Yeah, I got a lot."

Stan placed his fingers on the cool marble of the countertop, tracing over the imprinted lines and ridges. "She looked at me like a monster…"

"Who did?" There weren't many customers yet, so Chef decided it'd be fun to pass the time letting some sad drunk vent to him. Really, drunks were more entertaining to him than the movies.

"This dame I used to date. I saw 'er again and it's been a looooong time," Stan started chuckling to himself. "She looked great."

Chef raised his eyebrows and leaned against the bar. "You miss her?"

"As a friend." Stan's eyelids were drooping as he listened to the jazz band play an old Benny Goodman tune. "Hey, can I git anotha' one of 'ese?"

"I think you've had enough, son."

"C'mon'ooooonnn," Stan bumped his fists against the counter.

"Stan! Are you drunk?" A harsh voice sounded behind him, and a glassy eyed Stan whirled around to see Kyle standing there with his arms crossed and a frown etched into his fine features.

"Kyle! What took you guys so long, were you fucking?"

Kyle's cheeks lit up flaming red, his mouth twisted into a grimace. "Let's get out of here," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Ooh, you're gonna take me home?"

Kyle didn't say anything as he gripped Stan by the arm and dragged him out to the parking lot, practically pushing him inside the jalopy as people stared after them. Stan wriggled into the leather material of the seat and grinned.

"You're a handsome guy, Kyle. I'd love to take you home," Stan mumbled when Kyle slid into the driver's seat, violently shoving the key into the ignition.

"Shut up, Stan. You're drunk, you don't know what you're saying."

"Drunken thoughts are sober words. No wait, switch that. Sober words are thoughts drunken. Wait, that's not right, either."

Kyle's hands were tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles bleached white from the pressure and his face flushed with heat. His shoulders were tensed and stiff as he turned down the streets of South Park. Stan sat slouched in the seat, the back of his head resting against the window and his eyes watching Kyle as he was caught in a cycle of being illuminated by the white lights of street lamps, green eyes shining with stars for a second, and then plunged into darkness again.

"You don't know where I live," Stan said as Kyle pulled onto his street.

"I looked it up earlier today."

"That's cheating."

Kyle got out of the car first and came round the other side to help Stan up. Stan threw his arms over Kyle's shoulders and let himself be hauled inside. Thankfully, Stan lived on the first floor of the apartment building because there were not elevators. There was a security guard seated in the lobby, listening to a radio show with his feet up on the desk, but he hardly spared a glance when the two men came in.

Kyle found Stan's door easily, and he tried the doorknob only to realize that it was locked. Of course it was, why wouldn't it be?

"I need your keys."

"They're in m'left pocket," Stan's head was now resting against Kyle's shoulder and his eyes were shut. The man was already half asleep, so Kyle decided to just bite the bullet and grab the keys himself. With careful fingers, he slipped his hand into the pocket of Stan's trench coat. He felt the cool metal of the keys against his fingertips, but also the muscle of Stan's thigh underneath layers of fabric. Kyle quickly pulled the keys out and jammed one of the keys into the lock.

Finally, they were in Stan's place. It was a little studio that was just one single room with an unmade bed on one side, a chair, and a little kitchen area on the other side. They stumbled in, and Kyle had to be careful to not trip over stray items lying on the floor. Thankfully, it wasn't a far walk to the bed. Kyle gently grabbed Stan by the waist and laid him down on the tough foam of his mattress. As he did this, Stan opened his eyes and met Kyle's gaze. His blue eyes were shining like water in the dim light and his lips were parted slightly. Before he could stop himself, Kyle took his hand and placed it on Stan's cheek. His skin was warm, soft, and he smelled like tobacco and whiskey. He let his hand linger for a moment before abruptly jerking back and away from the bed. With labored breaths, Kyle ran out of Stan's apartment, slamming the door unceremoniously behind him, and out to his car. He leaned against the jalopy's metal frame, completely out of breath, as he stared up into the stars above.

Please remember to leave a review! :-)


	5. Sunset and Moonrise

Chapter 5: Sunset and Moonrise

Author's note: I just want to say that I am sending prayers for the people of Paris. For anybody reading this, I ask you to stand with France in these painful times and to remember all the brave people that helped those hurt. Liberté, égalité, fraternité.

-  
Last night, while Stan was drinking himself silly, Kyle was huddled in a booth with Token sitting across from him. The deep moans of the jazz band vibrated through the floors as the two men talked. Originally, Kyle had just wanted to ask a few questions and get out of there, but before he knew it, they were laughing over shared experiences. He had forgotten how well he got along with Token, despite vastly different backgrounds.  
Kyle had glanced at his watch and saw that it was past 10 p.m. _Shit_ , he thought. He hadn't meant to take so long. He wondered what Stan was doing, if he was okay. _He's a grown man, he can handle himself_.  
"I actually came here with a purpose," Kyle said, raising his voice so that Token could hear him over the din.  
He explained that he wanted to know exactly what happened that night when Cartman raided the club, the effects of which were still evident. Part of the main hall was hidden behind black curtains and there far fewer patrons than normal for a Saturday night.  
Token delineated the details from that night like he was writing a report. 1:00 a.m., everything seemed normal- people were dancing, music was playing, and booze was flowing. Token was talking with Chef at the bar when a woman near the front screamed. Very few people heard her over the music, but those that did just looked around confused, unsure if it was a scream of fear or delight. Then, a group of blue uniforms and white skin flashed in the dark. Cops, about five in total, were swarming the club. One of them, an extremely tall man with black hair and fair skin, made his way directly to the back of the room and flipped the lights on like it was routine. The band had stopped playing while Token bolted up, hands locked into fists, and spotted Cartman. He marched up to the chief and demanded to know why the cops were there.  
"This is a drug bust," his voice was bored. "It's been a slow night and I figured you coons were shootin' up."  
"And what are you gonna do when you don't find any dope?"  
Cartman's mouth stretched into a smirk. "I wouldn't worry about that."  
And with that, Token was forced to stand by and watch the shakedown, with people spilling out of the club like water over a river dam. Two patrons and a waitress were arrested for possession of narcotics. The waitress was a young woman named Nicole that Token was very close with. He saw a brown haired cop slap a set of handcuffs on her small wrists. Then, the cop slipped a small bag of white powder into her front pocket as he led her away.  
When the chaos ended, Token was left standing alone in the empty club. Shattered glass bottles and flipped tables littered the floor like corpses after a war.  
Kyle had been listening intently, his leg shaking and eyes glued on Token's face. A plan was starting to form in his mind: Cartman, or somebody close to him, had to purchase drugs to plant them. Find his dealer, take pictures Cartman performing a transaction, blackmail. Kyle thanked Token and slid out of the booth, spotting Stan collapsed at the bar.

-

That morning, while Kyle was chewing on his pen at work, Stan was dreaming. Dreams are strange things, no beginning and no end, and impossible to describe. He felt like he was looking down on his dream through his peripheral vision, able to see it but not clearly. Dressed in his battle fatigues, helmet slipping down over his eyes, he was lying belly down in a field of tall, yellow grass. Above him, the sun was shining in a clear sky, but the colors seemed off, tinted in a yellowy brown.  
His eyes scanned over the area in front of him, noticing two figures on the horizon. He tried to call out to them, but his voice was gone. He could see himself, neck stretched out and mouth gaping as he pathetically tried to scream. _Get down, get down. They're here_ , was the only thing he could think in a voice that was not his own.  
Before he knew it, the two figures were standing right in front of him. Stan was looking at their bare feet directly in front of him, then he scanned his eyes up the lengths of their bodies for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he reached their faces and saw that the two people were none other than Kyle and Wendy. Or, at least they looked like Kyle and Wendy, minus one important attribute- they're eyes lacked pupils. Whites and irises were in place, but the black center that held all the life was missing.  
They didn't notice him. A chilling breeze whipped through Wendy's long hair as she turned to Kyle. Her empty eyes met his as they moved closer together, fingers intertwining together, reminding Stan of a huge spider made of human flesh. Then they kissed, chapped lips pressed together in a grossly unchaste fashion. Stan's eyes were widened, limbs white and shaking. The only sound was the wet noise of the kissing, not even the slightest howl on the wind. _Stop, stop, stop!_  
Slowly, Stan became aware of a cruel buzz that was flitting through his head like an annoying housefly. At first he thought it was part of his dream, but his eyes eventually fluttered open and he was met with the sight of his white ceiling. With a groan, he forced himself to sit up, sending a shooting pain through the front of his head. He covered his face with his hands, gently massaging his temples.  
Of course, this was the decidedly less fun part that comes with heavy drinking- the hangover. Stan pushed himself off of the bed and stumbled to his sink, sticking his head underneath the faucet and turning it on. Lukewarm water poured into his dry mouth as he greedily gulped. He let the water run for a minute longer and stream down his face and neck. When he was done, he leaned back against the wall and ran his hands through his messy hair. He looked down to realize that he was still wearing his clothes from last night, shoes included.  
With a small jump, Stan realized that he had just woken up. He glanced at the clock- it was 3:00 p.m.- while he tried to remember what happened last night. He remembered going with Kyle to 'The Delta', Kyle was talking with Token, Stan was drinking and drinking. The last thing he could recall was Kyle dragging him out of the club.  
 _Kyle_ … It was hard for Stan to believe that he had only known the man for one day. He felt like they'd been friends forever. The phone started ringing, blasting new waves of pain into Stan's head. He reached over the phone sitting on the counter and picked up.  
"Hello," he groaned into the receiver.  
"Stan?" Speak of the devil, Kyle's voice sounded low on the line. "Stan, meet me at my office at ten. I've got a plan."

-

Kyle's plan was simple- blackmail Cartman. Stan was leaning against the door to Kyle's office, the entire building empty except for the two men. He watched the paralegal put on his coat as he explained, green eyes shimmering.  
"Technically, I'm not allowed to tell you this, but back when I worked with him we needed his alibi for a night that took place before the murder. He was really hesitant to tell us, but eventually he spit it out."  
Here, Kyle stopped for a moment to fix his collar. He glanced up at Stan, still waiting patiently with an expectant expression.  
Kyle took a deep breath and continued, quieter than before. "Well, that night he had visited a prostitute. A _male_ prostitute."  
Stan's jaw practically dropped to the floor. "No! You mean Cartman's a _queer_?"  
"Well, it's strange. He said that he likes men and women."  
"Sounds pretty queer to me."  
The room grew silent. Kyle was chewing on his lower lip and turning his hat around in his hands.  
"Stan, do you remember last night?"  
"Yeah, most of it."  
Kyle was staring at Stan, eyebrows furrowed in a confused expression. Stan shrugged his shoulders and dug in his pockets for a cigarette.  
"Nevermind," Kyle said, watching Stan light his cigarette and take a long drag. "I wish you wouldn't smoke."  
"I wish I wouldn't either," Stan's words came out in small puffs of vapor.  
Stan held the door open as he and Kyle walked out of the office and into the streets. Night was in full swing, the moon drifting a stark silver against the pure black of the sky. A few stars glimmered dimly through the pollution of the burning lights from nearby downtown. Tonight, they were walking to their destination. Stan didn't want Kyle's car to be seen where they were headed. While they walked down the quiet sidewalk, Kyle continued speaking.  
"Token explained to me that one of Cartman's men planted dope on a waitress. I'm thinking we can get proof of something like that."  
Stan nodded, inhaling his cigarette. "One thing at a time. I know the perfect guy."  
Through winding streets and unlit alleys, they walked until they came upon a narrow strip lit up with neon lights. People were smoking and laughing against street lamps and the deep bass of different kinds of music being played inside bars and night clubs reverberated into the outside air. Stan and Kyle stopped in front of a small bar with a plain sign that read "Skeeter's". Stan turned to Kyle, mouth tightened into a thin line.  
"Listen," he said, putting out his cigarette on a brick wall. "This place is a little different. Keep your hat on, your eyes low, and stick by me."  
With that, they stepped inside. At first, Kyle didn't see anything wrong with the place. It looked like any other bar in Colorado. The bar was located on the left side of the room, the red haired bartender chatting quietly with customers. There were tables, a jukebox, a pool table, and even a dart board. As they made their way towards the back, Kyle glanced around at the patrons and that was where he noticed something odd. Two men were seated at the bar, speaking with each other. One was a large man with neatly combed brown hair, and the other man was muscular, with a mustache and a leather jacket. They started leaning in closer together, voices soft whispers, and then the larger man placed his hand on the other man's thigh, lovingly stroking it.  
Kyle's eyes widened as he realized just what kind of place this was. All of the patrons were men, not a woman to be seen.  
"Stan," Kyle whispered, placing himself next to Stan without leaving even an inch of space between them. "This place- is this place f-for-"  
"Homosexuals," Stan finished for him, face calm but voice wavering. He couldn't bring himself to look at Kyle.  
Kyle's heart was pounding against the tightened muscles of his chest, stomach turning quaky and rising to his throat. He had to swallow several times to push back the feeling of being about to vomit. He had never, ever in his life, been to a homosexual hangout. Hell, Cartman was the first person he ever met to even be 'that way'. Growing up, he had used insults like 'fairy', 'fag', 'homo', and more in a never ending list of slurs, but he had never dreamed of actually meeting any.  
Nevertheless, something inside of him felt strange. No, not strange- _curious_. He kept scanning around the room, head swiveling every way and inspecting every corner. He knew where this place was now, how to get here. He could easily take off after work and come back by himself and- and what? _You're not a queer_ , Kyle reminded himself.  
Stan led him to a table in the back occupied by three men. One was an older, balding man with glasses and a green sweater, the next a handsome blonde with warm brown eyes, and the third was a short, red cheeked blonde with innocent blue eyes. Without saying a word, Stan pulled out a chair and sat down with them, Kyle awkwardly standing behind him.  
"Nice to see you again, Stanley," the balding man said. His words were addressed to Stan, but his eyes were on Kyle, searching up and down the young man's body as though he were undressing him in his mind. "Who's your friend?" he asked after a moment.

"Fuck off, Garrison. I'm here to talk to Kenny," Stan spat.  
"Sheesh, you don't need to be such an asshole about it," Garrison stood up and offered the blushing Kyle a smile before making his way over to the bar area.  
The two blonde men were laughing while Stan turned to them.  
"Kenny, Butters, this is Kyle," Stan motioned for Kyle to sit down next to him, which he obediently did.  
Kenny and Butters smiled and said their hellos, still giggling like schoolgirls.  
"So, Kenny," Stan began as the brown-eyed man perked up. "You know chief of police Eric Cartman?"  
"I think I met him once last year," Kenny put his hand to his chin as the gears sprang to life inside his head. "Yeah, I'm sure of it actually. He got me on prostitution charges."  
Kyle's eyebrows shot up as he gaped at Kenny. However, he didn't seem to mind Kyle's shock, instead just offering a sly wink. He also didn't seem to mind when Stan reached for his brandy and took a sip.  
"You wanna fuck Cartman while we take pictures?" Stan asked, putting the glass of brandy down in front of Kenny again.  
"Maybe, for the right price."  
"One hundred."  
Kenny pursed his lips, glancing between Butters and Stan. "Hmmm, I don't know…"  
"You're gonna pass up one hundred dollars?"  
There was silence as Kenny mulled over the proposition. Really, this was just for show. Stan and Kenny both knew that he'd accept.  
"Alright, fine. But I want the money up front."  
Stan smiled and pulled out a wad of cash, counting out $100 in twenties on the table. Kenny quickly grabbed the bills and stuffed them into his coat pocket. However, Butters was biting on his nails and frowning.  
"Are you sure you should do this, Kenny?" He had a slight southern accent.  
Kenny shrugged. "Why not?"  
"Ah gee, it's just that, doesn't it seem dangerous? He is the chief after all. What if something happened to you?"  
Kenny pulled Butters close to him, arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "Relax, man. I'm a professional. Besides, even if something does happen, I can't die."  
Everyone at the table went dead silent, all eyes on Kenny. Stan and Kyle had their mouths hanging open, unsure if they had heard him right. He couldn't _die_? How was that possible, and why were they just learning about this? However, they didn't press any further on the subject.  
"Cartman gets off duty tomorrow night at eleven. Go to the 'Starry Night Motel' and we'll be waiting in the car, ready to take pictures," Stan said, abruptly standing up.  
Kenny nodded and continued holding Butters, gently stroking his sunny hair. Kyle followed Stan to the front of the bar. Before they left, Stan stopped at the bar and asked the bartender for a shot of whiskey.  
"Stan, are you sure you should be drinking?" Kyle frowned, crossing his arms.  
"Relax, it's one drink."  
The bartender placed the small shot glass in front of Stan, who quickly poured it down his throat and slammed it back onto the table. He payed the bartender and headed towards the door, Kyle trailing along. Once outside, the two men stopped and stared at each other, questions burning inside their lungs.  
"Uh, is what that guy said true?" Kyle asked, scratching the back of his head. "He can't die?"  
"I honestly have no clue," Stan reached into his pockets for another cigarette, but found none. He cursed himself under his breath.  
"Are he and the other guy- are they-?" Kyle couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence. _Were Kenny and Butters homosexuals_ , he meant to ask.  
Stan understood anyway, he nodded, glancing down at his feet. "Come on, let's go back to my place and piece together what we know."  
The two men walked shoulder to shoulder through the night.


	6. Moonset and Sunrise

Chapter 6: Moonset and Sunrise

author's note: sorry for the long wait! I plan on finishing the story, just very slowly. Also, I changed the title of the story from 'As The Snow Falls' to 'South Park Confidential', as a reference to the movie that inspired me to write this: L.A. Confidential. :-)

The bloody red sun was sinking further beneath the horizon behind Tweek as he shuffled down the freezing sidewalk, head down and hands stuffed into his pockets. He glanced at a small clock tower- 6:50 p.m. In a few minutes, Clyde Donovan would roll down the street in his cruiser, heading back to the station after a long day patrolling the streets.

Tweek and Clyde had been good friends since elementary school, though they began to slowly drift apart after the war. Tweek suspected that Clyde felt guilty about this because whenever they saw each other Clyde had this pitying look in his eyes, his eyebrows slanted down and a sad smile on his lips. Sweet, gullible Clyde- he would be so easy to manipulate, all Tweek would need to do is make the cop feel sorry for him.

The previous day, Tweek had asked his neighbor to punch him in the face (a favor his neighbor was a little too eager to do), and now a deep, purple and black bruise smothered his left eye and stretched down the side of his face like dark storm clouds. It would probably take two weeks for the bruise to disappear, but Tweek didn't mind.

The gentle drone of tires drifting over the street hummed behind Tweek. Craning his neck to look behind him, the dizzying bright headlights blinded him for a moment until the car pulled up closer. Through the dark, Tweek could make out the unmistakable black and white of a police cruiser. Clyde was right on time.

Tweek stopped walking as the cruiser halted next to him, Clyde manually rolling down the window. He stuck his head out the window and flashed a bright smile.

"Tweek! How you doin'?"

"Oh, I-I'm fine," Tweek forced a nervous grin and clasped his hands tightly together.

Clyde's brown eyes narrowed and a frown fell upon his face. "What happened to your face, man?"

Tweek decided to look shocked, brows carefully raised. "Oh, you don't know? Your chief did this. I wasn't even doing anything."

"Oh," Clyde pursed his lips and glanced down for a second. He didn't ask what happened or why Cartman would do such a thing, instead accepting Tweek's answer without hesitation. The air was thick between them, and the evening quiet. Then, Clyde raised his head and smiled. "Hey, I get off work in a few minutes and me and some buddies are going to the bar tonight. Why don't you join us?"

Tweek straightened out his back and scratched his head. "Er, I don't know."

"Come on, we haven't hung out in a while."

After mulling it over for a second, Tweek shrugged and nodded. Clyde gestured to the back seat of the cruiser and Tweek slid on in. He wasn't really listening to Clyde chattering from the front seat as they sped down the quiet streets, instead choosing to knead his hands on his thighs and stare at the metal divider separating him from the cop.

Eventually, they made it to the station and Tweek waited in the car for about ten minutes while Clyde went inside to finish off his shift. The first few stars began twinkling in the dark purple sky when Clyde came out again, coat lazily unzipped and hat balancing at a jaunty angle over his brown hair. Trailing behind him was another cop, tall, fair skinned and dark haired.

They hopped into the front seats and turned around to look at Tweek. Clyde wore a goofy grin, but the other cop was expressionless. The darkness inside the car contrasted sharply with his light skin, and the divider formed crisscrossing shadows over his fine features. To complete his eerie look was a pair of pale blue eyes, colder than an arctic glacier.

Tweek gulped and twitched his head while Clyde introduced the cop to him.

"Tweek, this is Craig."

"Uh, n-nice to meet you," Tweek's voice was hardly above a whisper.

Craig nodded slightly, then asked "What happened to your eye?"

Before Tweek could answer, Clyde cut in, leaning his head close to Craig. "Cartman did it," he growled, voice dangerously low.

Craig shrugged and twisted his body around to face the front, staring coolly out the windshield. As they pulled out of the lot and onto the streets, now lit up by blinding streetlights, Craig took out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to both Clyde and Tweek, but both men shook their heads.

Tweek stared intently at the back of Craig's head, his black hair shining under passing streetlights, as the man lit his cigarette and took a long, slow drag. Smoke radiated from his parted lips and flowed out the open window. Tweek suddenly got the feeling that it was going to be a very long night.

The angle was absolutely perfect. Stan and Kyle were tucked away in Kyle's old jalopy, hidden behind rows of other cars in the motel parking lot, a camera resting on Kyle's lap. In one motel room with a large window that allowed its occupants to peer out at the snow covered streets, Kenny rested inside. He had been instructed to draw the curtains close, but leave a centimeter wide crack between. It was just enough for Stan and Kyle to see through, getting a perfect view to whatever would happen inside.

In the room, Kenny was lying on his back on the filthy bed, shirtless and sipping from a bottle of beer. Kyle, sitting in the driver's seat, lifted the camera up and snapped a quick picture. Stan quirked his eyebrow at this, glancing at the camera as Kyle fumbled with it.

"Just getting a clear shot of our setup," Kyle explained, bowing his head away from Stan.

Stan shrugged and then stretched his neck to look out the window. An ordinary brown car was rolling into the parking lot, smoke chugging out the muffler and dissipating into the cold air. Stan straightened out his posture and motioned for Kyle to grab the camera. The redhead obeyed and started taking pictures of the car, making sure to get the license plate in a few shots.

They watched with bated breath, Kyle snapping pictures as Cartman lumbered out of the car, his large frame a stark silhouette beneath the white light of a streetlamp. All was quiet, except for the small clicks of the camera.

Cartman knocked at the door to Kenny's room, glancing behind him and tapping his foot. When the door opened, Kenny leaning against the frame cloaked in shadow, warm light poured out onto the black parking lot and washed over Cartman's front. With his face perfectly illuminated, another picture was taken- irrefutable proof.

Quickly, Cartman shoved inside the room and Kenny closed the door behind him with a smirk. What happened played like a scene in a silent film, the shuttering of the camera like the microsecond of black between each frame. Inside, Cartman was shrugging off his coat, talking with soundless words.

Kenny, however, wasted no time. He sprang forward to undo Cartman's tie, fingers working with expert speed. A wide grin spread across Cartman's mouth as he leaned in close to Kenny's ear, whispering something.

Then, Kenny went still as death, his face growing bone white and eyes widening slowly. Kyle and Stan glanced at each other, brows furrowed, before continuing their observation. Kenny started shaking his head, his mouth making out the word 'no' repeatedly. Next thing they knew, Cartman was holding a handgun, placed just underneath Kenny's chin.

Almost immediately, Stan jumped up and opened the car door. Before he could get out, Kyle grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back in.

"Stan, are you crazy? He's got a gun, you can't go in there!"

Stan gritted his teeth and slid back into his seat, hands tightly gripping the handle and muscles tensed. Kyle continued taking photos.

"The best thing we can do," he said, taking a deep breath as he focused the camera on Cartman. "Is take pictures as evidence and hope that Kenny gets out okay."

It was only a few minutes, but seemed like hours. Their heartbeats pounded in their ears with a violent rush of cold blood filling their veins with each thump. Cartman was speaking to Kenny calmly, his eyes narrowed and posture controlled. Kenny was shaking, eyebrows folded back in a pleading expression and his neck stretched out from the cold metal of the gun.

Finally, Cartman got tired of talking. He removed the gun from Kenny's chin, but then quickly grabbed him by the hair, forcing the gun into his mouth. Kenny obediently wrapped his lips around the muzzle, brown eyes locked into a thousand yard stare.

"We have to do something, dammit!" Stan slammed his fist on the dashboard, mouth twisted into a grimace.

"Do what, Stan?" Kyle hissed through clenched teeth. "We can't go in there, Cartman'll shoot us!"

"I can't let Kenny die."

"It's him or you."

Before Stan could reply, a loud bang sounded from the motel. They snapped their heads back in the direction, and saw the window splattered with crimson blood, Cartman standing cool behind the glass and tucking his gun into his holster, then wiping off some blood from his face with a tissue.

Stan and Kyle dropped their jaws, frozen to their seats. They were silent as they watched Cartman put on his coat and walk out of the room. He whistled a jaunty tune as he stepped out into the winter air and hopped into his car. The headlights flashed over the motel room window, briefly illuminating the dripping blood, before he drove away into the night.

As soon as Cartman was gone, Stan and Kyle bolted out of the car and raced to the motel room. Stan practically ripped the door off its hinges and stumbled in. He crumpled to his knees when he saw Kenny lying motionless on his back on the floor, a dark bloodstain pooling around the back of his head and sightless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. When Kyle came rushing in a second later, his first instinct was to take a picture of the dead body.

"Shit," he mumbled, kneeling down next to Stan.

"Oh God, Kenny. I'm so sorry," Stan began crying, burying his face in his hands.

Kyle wrapped an arm around Stan and drew him in close. "Listen, you have to calm down. What if somebody hears you? We don't want to be caught here."

However, Stan wasn't listening. He was suddenly back in Europe during the war, machine guns firing with a ratatatat and bullets grazing the air. Screams and shouts sounded from soldiers around him as he struggled to reload his gun. The scene played in his mind like a flip book, slow and unnatural, slightly distorted. In front of him, a young soldier let out a sharp cry and collapsed onto his back, a bullet lodged neatly into his forehead, brown eyes hollow.

Kyle forced the trembling, sobbing Stan to his feet, supporting him with his shoulder. He dragged him outside and back to the car, where Stan was able to get himself into the passenger seat.

Breathless, Kyle collapsed into the driver's side and placed the camera in Stan's lap. Stan had calmed down and was now slumped in the seat and staring straight ahead.

"Develop those pictures tonight," Kyle said, running a hand through his hair. "And tomorrow we can anonymously submit them to the police."

"No," Stan's voice was shaking as he reached for his pack of cigarettes. "They're corrupt. We'll give them to Wendy. She can publish them for everyone to see."


	7. Where the Wind Blows

Sorry it took me so long to update! I just moved back to college so it's been a little hectic.

Chapter 7: Where The Wind Blows

Even his own lover wasn't exempt from the curse.

 _God is cruel._ Kenny's thoughts were sinking in his head, heavy and black, as he stomped up to his apartment. _Maybe there is no God_. He mused the idea, mulling it over his brain like he was tasting wine. In the end, he just shrugged and opened his door (naturally it was unlocked), shaking the snow off his shoulders.

Inside, the lights were off, but the open curtains allowed blaring streetlights from across the way to filter into the one-roomed apartment. Kenny could just make out the clock on the left wall- 4:50 a.m. The two thin hands on the broken face of the old clock formed a mocking grin.

He looked away from the clock and kicked off his boots, then his orange parka, and left them on the moth-eaten couch. There was already plenty of clothing tossed on the couch, and around the apartment in general. Mostly plain shirts with missing buttons and pants with holes in the knees, but also women's clothing and wigs. Dressing up as characters named 'Princess' and 'Marjorine' was a favorite pastime of Kenny and Butters.

He slunk to the bedroom, creaking the door open as quietly as possible and padded inside. There, the thin frame of Butters lay under a pile of blankets. Kenny cracked a smile and moved to the side of the bed, lifting up the blankets and crawling underneath.

Butters' warm breath drew slowly in and out, as steady as a heartbeat. When Kenny shifted his position so that he was lying on his side, the movement woke Butters, who rubbed his eyes and let out a small groan.

"You're back," Butters spoke quietly, but a slight smile graced his lips.

Suddenly, Kenny couldn't hold it back anymore. He swooped forward, grabbed Butters' face, and landed a passionate kiss. Butters instantly reciprocated, giving himself over to Kenny's greed. They were two mouths moving together like old dance partners, each predicting the other's movements in the gentle passion of a long romance.

They parted, breathing heavy through the dark.

"Have you been working all night?" Butters asked, moving in closer to Kenny's chest.

Kenny's smile vanished. "No," he broke his gaze away and glared at his hands. "No, I had, uh, an accident, again. Remember my thing with dying?"

Butters slammed his eyebrows and let out a small 'oh'.

"Gee, I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I just wish I could remember," Butters was whispering, clutching his hands tightly in one another.

Kenny exhaled harshly through his nose, then grabbed both of Butters' hands and brought them up to his mouth, chastely kissing each finger and knuckle as though his hands were the most precious thing on Earth.

"I love you," Kenny purred. "Now go back to sleep."

"I love you, too."

Butters closed his eyes again, Kenny's arms wrapped around him. Soon, he was lost to the sweet perfume of dreams.

However, Kenny lay awake, staring at the blank ceiling. He didn't move a muscle or make a sound, but somewhere deep inside the lowest pits of his stomach, a strange feeling was swirling like the heavy winds before a tornado. A feeling so unfamiliar, so unpleasant and eerie, tightening in his chest. _Why…_

Then, the emotion gripped him. Intangible claws digging at the insides of his throat, and he knew what it was.

Fear.

Thankfully for Tweek, the bar they went to had a quiet atmosphere. Groups of friends and lovers were huddled together at tables and at the bar, chatting amongst themselves over the smooth, jazzy music.

Tweek was seated in between Clyde and Craig at a booth, feeling jittery and out of place. He was slouched over a hot cup of Irish coffee, the sweetened whiskey dancing over his tense nerves and fogging his head, and the harsh coffee riling up his muscles and boosting his energy. The drink was both a depressant and an antidepressant, calming and exciting, opposites working against each other beautifully.

Along with Clyde and Craig, there were other people with them. Another officer named Barbrady, who had a kind of goofy innocence about him that was hard to dislike, and some guy named Kevin Stoley. They had had some reservations about Tweek when they first saw him. Just who was this wild looking, bruised man who couldn't even button up his shirt properly? However, all the men quickly took to him and welcomed him warmly.

All except Craig, who didn't smile or even pretend to be friendly. He was just puffing on a cigarette, adding laconic questions or statements to the conversation every now and again. Intimidated by him, Tweek found himself inching away in his seat, more towards Clyde.

"Hey Tweek," Clyde said, maybe a little too loudly because Tweek jumped up in his seat, letting out a small yelp. Clyde ignored it and continued. "Tell us how Cartman gave you that bruise."

Barbrady and Stoley eagerly nodded, and Craig ever so slightly arched an eyebrow, putting out his cigarette in the ash tray.

Oh God, Oh Jesus. Tweek twitched and looked around at everybody's faces with eyes shot open, the same thing that happened right before the curtains drew open on stage and he'd be exposed to the whole theatre. Get in character, Tweek. It's showtime.

"Well," he began, making his voice shaky enough to be believable. "I was out, just running some errands, when I saw your chief."

Okay, good start. What's next? Make up something dark and twisted, like on those bad radio soap operas? No, better to keep it simple. Easier to remember.

"So, I guess it must've been a boring day or something, 'cuz he came up to me and started asking me for my ID and stuff. I don't know why, I don't even have a car."

Where are you going with this? He scanned over the watching faces, each one intent, wide with curiosity but also a kind of deep knowing. Their eyes were flipping back and forth between a hawk like gaze fixed on Tweek, and glancing down at clenched fists in staunch refusal to look. Tweek began running his hands through his hair.

"I-I gave him my ID, it's no big deal. Then, he said that he needed to take me down to the station for questioning. Of course, I asked why and he wouldn't give me a reason, so I said no. Well, h-he didn't like that."

Tweek took a pause to twitch in his seat, acting as himself.

"Then, things kinda escalated. He started yelling at me, saying I wouldn't respect his, uh, authoritah, and I tried backing down but he just kept going at it. When I told him to calm down, that's when he hit me and know I got this shiner. He just left after that, without saying anything."

He offered a sheepish smile to finish off his story, mouth tilting to the left in a charmingly crooked way. The table was silent. _Oh God_ , he thought, _They don't believe me. They know I'm a lying liar and they hate me._

Finally, Clyde let out a long, low whistle, raising his head to meet Tweek's frenzied eyes.

"Jeez, I'm sorry," his voice was soft, apologetic.

Tweek just shrugged and let his chest relax as the other men voiced their agreement. They bought it like it was on sale. The cops then turned towards other topics of conversation, sharing stories of small time crooks and druggies they encountered on the job, and Tweek was left hunched in his chair, not paying attention to what was being said.

He tried to make his story believable, making sure to add in that Cartman was, above all things, bored. Being bored and holding power was not a good combination, and all cops got bored on the job. Now, one of two things could happen; either the cops would reject Tweek for knowing their shameful hobby, or pretend that they never harassed innocent civilians and be extra kind to him as a way of coping with their guilt.

Thankfully, it was the second one, as Tweek soon found out. The cops, except Craig, smiled gently at him, and asked him various questions when they wanted to include him in their conversation. Just normal small talk questions though, like what his job was (there was insulting laughter when he said 'actor', a true sign of friendship between males), and if he had a girlfriend or not. He answered politely enough, though he had trouble carrying on a discussion.

Then it struck him. Out of absolutely nowhere, panic bubbled in his stomach and crawled up like a slimy lizard to his throat. Tweek swallowed over and over again to push it down, his heart rate increasing with each drop of spit forcing itself through his esophagus. His shoulders were tensed like a soldier's, muscles in his chest held rigid and tight in an impenetrable wall.

Tweek sucked in a haggard breath as he stood up out of his seat, arms shaking. He grinned at the other men, a little too hard, and his eyes were shooting out of his face.

"Uh, excuse me for a second," he mumbled, twitching his head into his shoulder.

He ran to the one-person bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him. There, in the blinding white tiles and porcelain, everything poured out of the broken dam of himself. He fell to the floor with his back to the door, gasping harder than a drowning man, tears sliding down his red face. His vision was blurry, black at the edges, and electric shudders raked his back.

 _I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm dying…_

Suddenly, there was a harsh knock at the door that he felt reverberate through his bones.

"J-just a minute," he choked out, crooking himself up and resting his elbows on the sink. There was a mirror above the sink, so Tweek could see his pale reflection, his silvery tears, his dark shadows, and his twisted eyes.

To his surprise, the door opened anyway. Before he could say anything, Tweek saw the imposing figure of Craig casually leaning against the doorframe. Neither man said anything as Craig walked in calmer than the eye of a hurricane, and shut the door behind them.

Tweek was breathing hard through his mouth, his lungs not filling up all the way. Craig took out a carton of cigarettes.

"Want a smoke?" His voice was neutral.

Tweek nodded and took a cigarette while Craig produced a lighter. He grabbed Tweek's shaking hand that held the cigarette and lit it for him. The small flame danced before Tweek's eyes, and the slight heat brought him back into his body. Taking an eager drag, he let the smoke flow into his chest and out again through his parted lips.

"Breathe slowly," Craig said, quiet and placid, as he lit his own cigarette.

Tweek finished his smoke in about three minutes, putting the butt out in the sink and tossing it into the trash can. His heart was still throbbing, but his tears had dried. Craig was still enjoying his, but in between puffs he was talking without any aim.

"I used to work at a mental institution, and there was this guy that kinda reminds me of you. He was really nervous and sad, and he had this thing where he would randomly shout swears and shit like that. Sometimes he got all panicky like this."

Tweek leaned against the wall and studied Craig's face. It was mostly stony, his glacier eyes staring at the wall, though the muscles of his jaw were tensed ever so slightly, hardly noticeable, yet held everything.

"You really liked him," Tweek said.

Craig glanced at him and nodded. "I like you, too," he added under his breath.

Tweek snorted and smiled, brows raised in disbelief. "Yeah, it really shows."

Craig couldn't help but let the corners of his mouth raise in some sort of almost smile. He then gestured to Tweek's bruise.

"Did that really happen between you and Cartman?"

"Yeah."

"I don't believe you."

Tweek wasn't sure whether he should've felt offended or relieved.

"Why not?" he growled.

Craig shrugged. "Just a feeling. I mean, sure your story sounded realistic. And I know Cartman, and that definitely could've happened, but I don't believe you."

Tweek pursed his lips and started twitching his eyes and shaking his leg as Craig lumbered towards him, his cigarette almost finished.

"And that makes me wonder- why would you lie about that?"

Their eyes met, ice to electricity, and neither man said anything as Tweek shivered beneath his gaze.

They stood like that until Craig finished his cigarette a good thirty seconds later, finally breaking eye contact. Tweek let his posture relax a bit as he grabbed at his hair, blonde waves disrupted and ruffled.

Craig took out a little notepad and pencil, the kind he used to write tickets. He scribbled something on a small sheet of paper, ripped it out, and handed it to Tweek. It read: _Tuesday, 11:50 pm, alley next to the station._

Tweek scrunched his brows and glanced questioningly at Craig.

"Meet me there. Don't tell anyone."

With that, Craig turned away and marched out of the bathroom. Tweek was left slouching against the sink, gripping the crinkled paper like the world depended on it.

Thanks for reading, remember that smoking kills, and please leave a review!


	8. In the Pines

Hey, I'm not dead! Just in a slump, but I've said it before and I'll say it again; I'm not giving up on this story!

Chapter 8: In the Pines

When Stan woke, he was submerged in a dark red glow like light filtering to the very bottom of the ocean, with total blackness at the corners of his vision. The dead silence created a faint buzzing in his ear, his brain trying to fill the void with sound.

He stretched out his arms and looked down at himself. He was dressed in an undershirt and trousers, no shoes or socks, and sitting on a tile floor, back resting against a bathtub. The odor of a chemical metal was suspended in the air like a lynched man. Through the shadows, he could make out the shapes of his bathroom sink sleeping next to several boxes filled with developing and fixer solutions, and above an army of photographs were hanging.

 _I must've fallen asleep while developing photos…_ He shambled up to take a closer look at what he had photographed last night, the red light pouring over the pictures. He couldn't remember all of what happened, but his mind filled in the gaps of missing information. As far as he knew, he and Kyle only took photos of an illicit affair between Cartman and Kenny.

So, when he looked at the developed photos and saw Kenny's pale corpse lying in a pool of blood, he was a little shocked.

Well, more than a little. He gripped one of the photos tightly between his thumb and index finger. It was blurry around the edges, but the clear center depicted Kenny lifeless on his back, no shirt and no shoes. His head was stretched back, chin raised in the air and unfocused eyes boring into the camera lens.

Stan's own eyes were in a wild frenzy, shooting between each and every photograph he had developed, trying to make sense of them. They went in sequential order, the first depicting Cartman driving to the motel, entering a room with Kenny, then pulling out a gun. There was a gap, then the photos of Kenny's body and a blood spattered window.

 _What the actual living fuck. When did this happen? Why don't I remember anything?_ Stan was rummaging through boxes and cabinets in his mind, searching for a lost memory he must have misplaced.

With an unhinged expression, Stan snatched the last photo and slipped it into his pocket. He wasted no time in bolting out of his bathroom, grabbing his coat and shoving his shoes onto his feet. With no socks, hat, or anything else he hurtled out of his apartment, racing down hallways and then onto the street. Outside, the sun was high in the sky- it must've been around 3:00 p.m., Sunday afternoon.

As he shot through alleyways and down sidewalks, something was pushing at the back of Stan's mind. Like an animal caught underneath a blanket, bumbling in the dark, searching for the light with tangled paws. If it could only just pop its head above to freedom. Maybe it was a memory, or some forgotten snippet of information. The missing puzzle piece stuck underneath the couch, just out of reach.

A few minutes later, he reached Kyle's apartment, after climbing up the stairs at full force. He banged on the door, body convulsing in a manic fever as he waited for what seemed like decades.

 _Come on, please be home._ Stan was violently tapping his feet when the door finally creaked open, revealing a disheveled Kyle with dark circles beneath his bleary eyes and red hair wild like a forest fire.

"Stan? Shit, what time is it?"

Stan ignored the question and just shoved the photograph into Kyle's face. Kyle flinched, then took the photo and examined it, bringing it up to his eyes. His expression was at first rumpled, brows like storm clouds, then lifted like a ray of overpowering light as his jaw tensed.

"What the fuck is this?" He hissed as he grabbed Stan by his shirt collar and dragged him into his apartment, slamming the door behind him with a gunshot loud bang.

Stan shook his head, mouth open but no sound coming out. Kyle kept running his eyes over the photo again and again, soaking up each little detail until the image of Kenny's sunken face was burned into his skull.

"This is impossible," his voice growing quieter, cracking at the edges. " I don't remember this. He was alive…"

"I don't fucking know," Stan choked out. "Were we drugged?"

"Do you know where he lives- lived?"

When Stan nodded, Kyle grabbed his coat off of the rack, put on his shoes quickly and clutching Stan's arm as he lead him out of the apartment. Before Stan could even take stock of what was happening, he was pushed into the passenger's side seat of Kyle's car as they sped down the street.

"It's, uh, 635 Avenue de Los Mexicanos," Stan's mouth spoke as his mind blanked.

Soon enough, they arrived at their destination, Stan running up the stairs with Kyle trailing close behind. At Kenny's door, they knocked on the door like a drowning man flailing in the water.

The door opened a crack, and the round face of Butters peeked through, eyes bright and unflinching.

"Well, hey fellas! Didn't expect to see you two here. Gee you guys look real tired," he mumbled as he let the two men inside.

The apartment was filthy and poorly lit, clothing on the floor and hanging off of every surface. Magazines with naked women on the insides were left open on a crooked coffee table, and a hole in a broken window was covered with tape.

Stan and Kyle's breaths caught up with them as they looked at Butters, their brows rolled back in pity. With a deep sigh, Stan stepped towards Butters while Kyle pulled out the photo from his pocket and held it in the air. Just as Stan was about to speak, the bedroom door slammed behind them. Both men jumped and screwed around to see who was there.

Kenny was slouched in a ripped wifebeater, hair huddled over his forehead and pricks of blonde stubble poking out of his face.

At the sight of their dead friend, Stan and Kyle stiffened their muscles, flashes of fear shocking through their bones and jolting hard in their chests. All the air in their lungs was yanked out, freezing their blood cells and ripping open their eyes. After a moment, Kyle shot forward and grabbed the front of Kenny's wifebeater with one hand, photo clutched in the other, and dragged him forward and to meet his gaze.

Kyle spoke through gritted teeth. "What kind of fucking game are you playing?"

Kenny's expression closed into a confused scowl as he shook his head, muttering "I don't know what you're getting at…"

With a fiery glare, Kyle shoved the photo in front of Kenny's face, which immediately widened and fell again into a pathetic, miserable look with a tight lipped frown. His eyes gained a familiar darkness at the sight of his own corpse.

"I don't know why I thought this time would be any different," Kenny mumbled, pushing Kyle off of him and walking over to the couch.

"Kenny, what are you talking about?" Stan asked in a low voice.

"I can't die."

Silence settled in the room as everybody stared at Kenny, slouched and unblinking.

"All my life," Kenny continued, "I've had this thing. I've been stabbed, burned, shot, and worse, I've seen heaven and hell, but every single time I wake up again as if nothing happened, and nobody remembers."

Stan moved over to Kenny's side, eyes folded in concern, and placed a light hand on his shoulder.

"Okay," he began, speaking with the careful tone that one would use to calm a wild animal. "I believe you, Kenny. You can't die. Why?"

"I don't know."

Butters bit his lower lip, feeling a strange sense of deja-vu. This conversation has happened before, he was sure of it. But when?

Meanwhile, Kyle had his arms crossed, hands tightened into pale fists. He was just about ready to storm out and never look back. Before he could say anything, Kenny spoke again.

"You know, you got some solid proof of murder. Better use it before somebody realizes I'm alive."

A slow nod, and Stan pushed himself onto his feet and motioned for Kyle to follow him. Steam was practically pouring out of his ears as he stomped over to the front door and left the apartment. Stan stayed behind a brief moment to mumble his goodbyes, then went after him.

Outside, the sun greeted them with a harsh optimism that was foreign after being in the dark apartment. With a red face, Kyle felt hot pressure trapped in his chest, but he couldn't remember what had gotten him so riled up.

"Where to next?" Kyle asked, tone vaguely angry but also unsure.

"Uh, I think we should talk to Wendy. I'm trying to remember what for, though."

Stan scratched his chin, digging through his mind for the answer, while Kyle casually placed his hands in his pockets. He felt a smooth, papery material and scrunched his brows together as he pulled a photograph out of his pocket. He took one glance at it and let out a dramatic gasp.

Stan quickly moved to look at the photo, his face widening at the picture that was horrifying and familiar at the same time- Kenny's dead body in the motel.

"Oh my god, he killed Kenny," Stan whispered.

"That bastard."


End file.
